


in bloom

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Series: nobody's leftovers [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 07:09:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19901797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: Tara keeps thinking about Jenny’s hand, gently covering Anya’s over that worn-out kitchen table. They’ve all had a good run, she thinks, the three of them as cozy best friends in their little shop. But if Jenny and Anya becomeJenny-and-Anya,where is that going to leave Tara?(In a tiny little magic shop in San Francisco, Tara Maclay finds her place.)





	in bloom

It all starts when Faith arrives.

No. No, it starts earlier than that: it starts when Tara decides to tie a sizable bundle of mistletoe up over the shop entrance two weeks before Christmas, thinking that it’ll make the place seem a little more festive and fun. Anya endorses the idea _heartily,_ bubbling over with delighted businesslady glee, using the mistletoe as an opportunity to playfully needle couples who walk in hand in hand. _Couples’ discount!_ she chirps, and surprise, surprise, it actually _works._ They’re making a pretty tidy holiday profit, even on top of the increased December sales.

Winter in San Francisco is something of an odd creature. Any season in San Francisco is something of an odd creature, really, because San Francisco doesn’t have any seasons at all. Tara grew up with snow, and chill, and a drop in temperature at the very _least—_ but Christmas Eve brings a clear, sunny day that’s hot enough for them to need the windows open. Tara fills Saint George’s water bowl early in the morning, opens up the shop, and busies herself with straightening the holiday displays. She’s always been an early riser—up even before Anya, who opens the store at seven in the morning simply because she _can._

Anya comes down just as Tara’s finished reorganizing the artful array of magical snow globes. “Knock the price up on those,” she says. “This is the last day they’ll be profitable.”

“By how much?” Tara takes out a roll of price tag stickers.

Anya considers. “Five dollars.”

“Five—” Tara gives the snow globes a doubtful look. Anya’s already knocked the price up twice in the last week. “I really don’t think they’re worth that much, Anya.”

“People are desperate,” says Anya stubbornly.

“You _know_ Jenny’s going to agree with me.”

Anya huffs. “You two always do this!” she says. “You always outvote me and then we barely bring in any money at all!”

This is an extreme exaggeration. Anya’s new branch of the Magic Box—now rebranded as the Apothecary _—_ has brought in a _very_ tidy sum in the last year and a half. It’s been more than enough to finance new tech for Jenny, new succulents for Tara (she’s always wanted plants) and an entire new wardrobe for Anya, who is currently wearing a knee-length silk robe over a pale rose babydoll and looking like she’s stepped right out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Anya in particular has really been enjoying her weekly shopping sprees. “Anya,” says Tara, “shouldn’t you go get changed into your work clothes?”

“It’s _Christmas Eve,”_ says Anya dismissively. “Today the store opens later to make people just that little bit more desperate.”

“How much later?”

Anya considers. Then, with satisfaction, she says, “Until Jenny wakes up.”

Jenny’s role in the day-to-day workings of the Apothecary is, ironically, minimal. Anya initially wanted to name the place _Ms. Calendar’s Apothecary_ because she was of the mind that naming it after _herself_ would be a tad too narcissistic, and, even outvoted by her business partners, still refuses to call it anything but that. Tara thinks it’s very cute, but also very funny, because of the three of them, Jenny’s the one actually down in the shop the least. On top of being in charge of restocking supplies, Jenny maintains the store’s online shop, which means she gets to keep her own insane hours and stay up till three AM ordering frog eyes or something like that. But this also means that Jenny has a tendency to sleep in till noon, which—

“Top of the morning to you!” chirps Jenny, all but tumbling down the stairs in a t-shirt and jean shorts.

Tara notices Anya’s eyes widen a little, and realizes that Jenny’s primed to knock over one of the neatly arranged displays of extremely breakable crystals. “Careful there,” Tara says, moving forward. “Also, don’t you usually sleep in later than that?” She’s a little grateful Jenny _hasn’t,_ because their Christmas profits would have taken a _huge_ hit if they’d opened at noon. The Apothecary is best-known and most frequently patronized for the weirdly early hours it keeps.

Jenny shrugs. “I’m pumped,” she says. “It’s Christmas. I wanna go get one of those novelty drinks from Starbucks.”

“ _No,_ ” says Anya, grabbing Jenny’s arm as she heads out the door. Jenny keeps moving. Anya is towed along. “Today is _too_ hot for coffee, Jenny—”

“I’ll make it iced.”

“We need you here! It’s our busiest day!”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to open late today?”

“I said I wanted to open when _you were awake,_ and now you _are—_ ”

The door jingles as Anya and Jenny knock into it, jostling the mistletoe. It falls sort of sideways, and a single sprig is loosened, bonking Anya lightly on the nose.

“Oh, hey,” says Tara, giggling. “Couples’ discount?”

“Couples’ discount,” Jenny agrees, a laugh in her voice. She turns to Anya. “Anya,” she says very seriously. “Can I utilize the couples’ discount to get myself a cup of iced coffee from down the street?”

“That isn’t the way that discounts _work,_ Jenny,” says Anya indignantly, “and anyway, it’s not a couples’ discount if you’re not a couple.”

“Who says we’re not a couple?” Jenny persists. “We own a store together—”

“With Tara!”

“And we’re standing under mistletoe, and you’re _basically_ in your underwear.”

“I will have you know that the very nice saleslady at Victoria’s Secret described this as _nighttime wear,_ not _underwear—_ ”

Jenny cups Anya’s face in one hand and kisses her. It’s a quick kiss, barely a brush of lips, but—Tara’s seen and even fallen victim to best-friend kisses, the kind of uncomfortable, passionless collision that happens when the kisser isn’t _really_ interested in kissing another girl. The energy of the moment feels like it _should_ be that, but the way Jenny pulls back from kissing Anya looks…a little bit like the way Tara felt when she first kissed Willow.

Something occurs to Tara in that moment. Something that she has a feeling Jenny and Anya haven’t picked up on themselves.

Jenny grins, triumphant, and takes advantage of Anya’s moment of distraction to _race_ out the door.

 _“You—!”_ Outraged, Anya moves to sprint after Jenny, then realizes that she _is_ still in her lingerie. “ _Ugh!_ She is _the_ worst, Tara, the _literal_ worst!” There’s a laugh in her voice, though; indignant as she is, she’s still clearly impressed with Jenny’s tactics. “And to think I wanted to open this shop as a _family—_ ”

“Was that the real reason?” Tara feels herself begin to smile.

 _“No,”_ says Anya, but she’s blushing. “It was to stress out the customers.”

 _“Sure,”_ says Tara.

* * *

Jenny comes back with a gingerbread-flavored iced coffee, boba for Anya, and iced tea for Tara. “I can almost _hear_ Rupert crying from England,” she quips. They’re all sitting around the kitchen table in their small second-floor apartment; they live right above the Apothecary,and Anya likes to joke that it makes their morning commute _way_ easier. “Him and his ridiculous British standards regarding what should and shouldn’t be called _tea._ ”

“How _are_ they doing, do you think?” Tara asks tentatively. The last she heard, the Scoobies were still dealing with the aftermath of Sunnydale’s destruction. It feels almost wrong for all of them to be here, happy, in their cozy little shop—but she doesn’t know how much good they’d all do back with those people who were never really _their_ people. Tara likes the way it feels to be around people who treat her like _Tara,_ not like Willow’s shy, gentle girlfriend. She likes the way it feels to not be _Willow’s._ (Not that she doesn’t miss Willow; of course she does. She can’t help it. But she doesn’t miss the way her place in the group was only ever in conjunction with Willow.)

“Hmm,” says Jenny. It doesn’t seem like the question holds much weight for her. But then Jenny knew the Scoobies five years ago—not _now._ Not the people they are. It’s probably easiest for her, out of all of them. “You know, I honestly don’t know? But I think they’d call us if they needed us.”

Tara worries about Willow, sometimes. She hopes Willow is okay. She doesn’t think Jenny worries about Giles, or Anya about Xander—partially because they didn’t leave things so unfinished and blurry, but partially because Giles and Xander can take care of themselves, or at least do a good job of pretending that they can. Willow isn’t very good at taking care of herself. But Willow also isn’t very good at taking care of other people—so. It can’t be Tara’s job to take care of her.

It doesn’t make her situation any less hard.

Anya seems to sense Tara’s mood. She gently nudges Tara’s shoulder, then says, “I’m sure Willow’s fine. Seriously. That girl’s basically an atomic bomb of mystical energy—”

“I thought that was Dawn,” says Jenny.

“Dawn is a _glowing green ball_ of mystical energy, Jenny, keep up!” There’s a laugh in Anya’s voice. “All I’m saying, Tara, is that Willow is at _no_ risk of getting killed. Seriously. I’d worry more about Giles.” Her eyes are on Jenny now. It looks almost like she’s testing the waters for something. “He’s so weak,” Anya says. “So frail—”

Jenny chokes on her iced coffee and starts giggling. “Oh, don’t be _mean,_ ” she laughs, and for some reason, that makes Anya’s face relax. “Listen, they’re probably all _fine,_ and we have a big Christmas sale to worry about. If you _really_ want, we can call them, okay? I was talking to Rupert just last week.”

Anya’s eyes narrow. “You were?”

“Don’t get all fighty,” says Jenny gently. “He’s really doing better.”

“Is he coming here to fetch you, now that he’s _doing better?”_ says Anya.

“He’s not,” says Jenny. “We’re friends.”

“Friends have sex sometimes,” says Anya.

“Well, we’re not _that_ kind of friends,” says Jenny, her smile fading. “Anya, is everything okay?”

“Fine!” says Anya.

“I’m not leaving,” says Jenny, reaching across the table to take Anya’s hand. “Okay? I’m not—even if Rupert came here and was a hundred percent ready to start dating again, I wouldn’t leave San Francisco. I have a very nice life here, and extremely nice friends, and I’m not compromising that for the sake of jetting off with Rupert to rebuild the Council or whatever the hell he’s doing right now.”

“People _have_ left me, before,” says Anya. She looks very small. “Over, and over. And they say they won’t, but they _do—_ ”

“Anya?” says Jenny. “I came back to life to _be_ with you.”

Anya swallows, hard. “You came back to life to be with Giles—”

“Then why am I not with him right now?”

The conversation is charged, and for the first time since they’d invited her over to their tiny little apartment back in Sunnydale, Tara is beginning to genuinely feel like she’s intruding. She clears her throat, but this doesn’t break the tension; Jenny’s focus is on Anya, and Anya’s focus is on her hands. “Um,” says Tara, picking up her iced tea, “I’ll—I’ll go open the shop, if you guys are ready.”

“Yeah,” says Jenny distantly. She’s still looking at Anya a little helplessly. “Anya. I don’t understand why you can’t—”

Tara gets up, doing her best not to listen in on Jenny and Anya’s conversation. Now even Saint George is awake, and he perks up when he sees she’s going downstairs, padding gracelessly alongside her and taking up way too much space. Tara picks him up to go down the stairs—difficult, but necessary, because she’s nearly tripped over him in the tiny stairway more than once—and puts him down when they’re back in the shop, turning on the lights again before flipping the little sign on the door.

As she crosses the store to stand behind the register, Saint George makes a little _whuff_ sound and gently paws at Tara’s leg. He’s Jenny’s dog through and through, and just like Jenny, he’s got an uncanny sixth sense for whenever Tara’s feeling a tiny bit blue. And usually Jenny _is_ good at picking up on these things, just—not when she’s trying to figure out problems of her own. Ones she probably doesn’t even realize she _has_ just yet.

Tara keeps thinking about Jenny’s hand, gently covering Anya’s over that worn-out kitchen table. They’ve all had a good run, she thinks, the three of them as cozy best friends in their little shop. But if Jenny and Anya become _Jenny-and-Anya,_ where is that going to leave Tara?

The bell on the door rings. A girl with long, glossy dark hair peers through, and her eyes widen a little when she sees Tara.

“Oh—welcome to the Apothecary,” says Tara, embarrassed to be caught staring off into space. “How can I help you?”

The girl looks familiar. It tugs at Tara’s brain, but she can’t quite place it until the girl says, awkwardly, “So you don’t remember me, huh?”

And just like that, Tara does. Even in the right body, this girl’s aura is fragmented and chaotic. “Faith,” she says, and can’t help the small spike of fear. She remembers the things Willow told her about this girl. “Last I heard, weren’t you in prison?”

Faith gives her a small, thin smile. “Guess I can’t really expect a warm welcome,” she says. “Listen, I-I’m sorry. About the stuff I said back then. I don’t remember most of it, but if you’re looking at me like that, it probably wasn’t anything good.”

Tara doesn’t remember it either, to be honest; all she remembers is the terrible feeling of _Willow’s best friend doesn’t like me._ But it’s still been enough to sour her towards this girl—up until now, at least. Because the Faith standing in front of Tara right now is looking directly at her, and Tara doesn’t have to read auras to know that Faith’s remorse is genuine.“It probably wasn’t,” Tara agrees. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Actually, I.” Faith laughs a little nervously. “I actually do need some stuff for a spell. I had no idea this was your place.”

As Tara’s trying to figure out how to continue the most awkward conversation she’s ever had, Jenny comes downstairs. “Customer?” she says.

“How’s Anya?” Tara asks, a little worried.

Jenny smiles, soft and wistful. “That girl never stays down for long,” she says. “All I had to do was mention the Christmas sale and she was _racing_ to throw together the perfect business-casual holiday outfit.” She smiles at Faith. “I haven’t seen you before,” she says. “Are you new to the area, or has our online presence finally attracted some non-local customers?”

“Neither,” says Faith awkwardly. “Giles sent me down to get some stuff.”

Jenny’s smile slips. “Oh.”

This is, of course, when Anya rounds the corner, sees Faith, _shrieks,_ and throws herself, bodily, at Jenny and Tara, yanking them both out of harm’s reach. “BACK, MURDER-Y MURDER SLAYER GIRL!” Anya shouts. “GET AWAY FROM MY FRIENDS!”

“Okay, ease off, honey,” says Jenny patiently, turning in Anya’s arms in such a way that Tara’s able to break free. Anya’s still holding onto Jenny like a life preserver, though, to which Jenny responds by leaning forward and bumping her forehead companionably against Anya’s. As if a switch has been flipped, Anya relaxes.

“Oh,” says Faith. Her eyes are wide. “Uh, wow. Giles and Xander are gonna lose it if they hear about this.”

“About what?” says Tara warily. Jenny is too focused on calming Anya down to have heard Faith, which is probably a good thing.

Faith looks pointedly towards Jenny and Anya, and then back to Tara again, as if to say _them, obviously._

“They’re _friends,_ ” says Tara.

“Sure,” says Faith. “Listen, kitten, they’re about as _friendly_ with each other as you and Willow Rosenberg were a few years back.”

“Careful,” says Tara, simple and sweet, and raises her eyes to Faith’s.

Faith holds her stare for just a moment—and then something unexpected happens. She caves. She ducks her head, looking genuinely taken aback, then looks appreciatively back up at Tara. “Jesus,” she mutters. “From the way the Scoobies talked about you, I thought you’d be some kinda pushover.”

It’s clearly a compliment. Tara decides to take it. “Well, you can see I’m not,” she says. “So tell us what you need, and we’ll give it to you. How does that sound?”

* * *

The rest of Christmas Eve passes uneventfully. They make a lot of money thanks to Anya’s business savvy, Jenny spends most of the day frantically packaging online orders that need to be magically mailed to their customers by Christmas morning, and Tara makes sure all the kids who come into their shop leave with at _least_ three gingerbread men. They spend the night snuggled up in front of their upstairs TV watching a cheesy Christmas movie, and Anya falls asleep using Saint George as a pillow, and Jenny tiptoes back downstairs to finish up the last of the online orders.

And Tara feels…she feels like she _should_ feel happy, and relaxed, and as snuggly and safe as Anya looks on their comfortable olive-green couch. But she can’t stop thinking about Faith saying _I thought you’d be some kinda pushover,_ and she can’t stop thinking about Faith smiling that slow, intrigued smile, and she can’t stop thinking about _Faith._

It's been a while, Tara tells herself. It’s been a while, and Faith’s just the first pretty girl you’ve _noticed._ That doesn’t mean you should try and pursue her. That would actually be a _really bad idea,_ considering that Faith’s still involved with the Scoobies and you’re not. Don’t complicate a nice thing—a _good thing—_ just because you can’t keep your own hormones in check. Besides which, she’s not even going to come back to the Apothecary, so it doesn’t matter anyway. It _doesn’t_ matter _anyway._

It’s _fine._

Tara curls into the other side of the couch and finishes off the last of the eggnog. It’s Christmas morning. Tomorrow they’ll be closed, and the tidying-up will do an excellent job of distracting her from thoughts of Faith’s lustrous hair and gorgeous eyes.

* * *

Except the thing is, a few weeks later, Faith comes back. This time, it’s on a day that Tara’s the only one in the store: Anya’s gone on a mini road trip to bully one of their suppliers into giving them lower prices, and Jenny’s out trying to track down some old spellbook that she wants to try and add to her online magic database. It had been shaping up to be a pretty uninteresting day—somehow, business always slows down when Anya’s not there—when the bell rings, and Tara looks up, and _there’s Faith._ Wearing a tank top that _clings._ Oh, god, Tara’s _glad_ Anya and Jenny aren’t here; they’d _definitely_ pick up on her blush.

“Hey,” says Faith awkwardly. “Turns out I need more, uh,” she pulls out a list to squint at it, “pickled salamander tails? _Gross._ ”

“They come in jars, if that helps,” says Tara, trying not to laugh. “Is that all you need? I’ll have to go down into the storeroom, and if there’s more on that list, I’d like to get it while I’m down there.”

“Just the salamander tails,” says Faith, who’s shifting nervously from foot to foot. Her aura seems a little on edge, but in a warm-yet-nervous way that doesn’t seem like malevolence. “And, uh, do you guys sell flowers?”

“Flowers?” Tara repeats. “Well, we have some dried herbs for—”

“What kind of flowers do you like?”

Tara blinks. “What?”

“Just—tryin’ to make conversation,” says Faith awkwardly, a blush of her own rising in her cheeks. It doesn’t seem in any way related to the heat.

“Oh,” says Tara. “Well. I like…” She trails off, thinking. “Daisies,” she says finally. “And dandelions.” Her father used to buy her mother expensive bouquets after an argument broke bad, and it’s left Tara with a distaste for the more expensive roses. She likes the weeds, the ones you see popping up in sidewalk cracks; they’re a more daily, more constant kind of beauty. Her mother would braid daisies from the backyard into Tara’s hair.

“Sick,” says Faith appreciatively.

“What about you?”

Faith considers. “Tiger lily,” she says finally. “I’m not really a flower person, but anything with _tigers_ in it sounds badass.”

That startles Tara into a laugh; she presses a hand to her mouth, still giggling. Faith is grinning too, soft and surprisingly shy, her blush deepening as she watches Tara. “Sorry,” says Tara, “it’s just—have you _seen_ a tiger lily? They’re _soft!”_

“Pshh,” says Faith. “All flowers are soft, but are all’a them called _tiger?_ Like, shit, look at _me—_ ” she flips that gorgeous hair over one shoulder and Tara’s brain short-circuits, “—I’m hot stuff, but I can still throw a good enough punch to knock a vampire sprawling.”

“So you’re a tiger lily, is what you’re saying,” Tara teases, leaning forward on the counter. She’s well aware that this is veering towards flirtation, but you know what? Faith came back. Tara can’t be held responsible for the choices she makes when a pretty girl comes _back._ “All gorgeous and orange and blossoming?”

“Honey, I’m in _full_ bloom,” says Faith. Her smile is sharp, now, and Tara _is_ reminded a little bit of some kind of jungle cat. There’s something new in Faith’s eyes, something bordering on _hungry._ “Y’know, you _do_ remind me of a daisy—”

The bell on the door rings, and another customer comes in. Faith pulls back, the moment gone, and Tara says, “PICKLED SALAMANDER TAILS,” racing down towards the basement to get them from the storeroom. She can’t look back at the customer, can’t look back at _Faith,_ and as soon as she’s halfway down the stairs, she takes a breath and—

And the door to the storeroom is ajar. That strikes Tara as somewhat odd, because Anya’s always extremely strict about making sure they properly lock up the storeroom, _especially_ if there’s only one of them in the store. There’s a lot of stuff they keep down there that the larger magical community would consider well worth stealing (and some stuff, in Tara’s opinion, that should probably be in some kind of a museum—but Anya _refuses_ to let go of any of her treasures and trinkets from her demon days), which is why they always make sure to keep it under lock and key. So why is the door to the storeroom ajar?

Someone is crying.

Tara opens the door all the way, stepping tentatively inside.

Anya looks up, sniffling, and for a moment she looks a strange mixture of terrified and furious—but then she sees it’s Tara, and dissolves into sobs again. “Jenny’s _seeing_ him!” she wails.

“What?” says Tara.

“She made up a lie and she’s _seeing_ him, I _saw_ them when I was—” Anya’s words fade into more sobbing, “—and now she’s going to _—_ ” sobbing again, “—and I _love her!”_

Carefully, Tara shuts the door behind them. Carefully, she sits down in front of Anya. “What kind of _love her?”_ she says. This only makes Anya cry harder. “Okay,” says Tara, deciding to steer the conversation into _marginally_ safer waters, “who’s Jenny seeing?”

She’s pretty sure she knows the answer.

“Giles,” says Anya. She sniffles again, wiping her eyes messily on her sleeve. “He—they were out at a café together. She said she was _tracking down a rare book for her database,_ but she didn’t say anything about him!” She lets out a shaking breath, then continues, “And I don’t know why—I don’t know _why_ she wouldn’t tell me. We’re best friends, she _promised_ she wouldn’t leave me, I don’t know why she wouldn’t _tell_ me—!”

“You know she’s not going to leave you,” says Tara gently.

“Yes she _is,_ ” says Anya. “Someday she’s going to fall in love and _leave,_ and I’d never be angry when it happens, because I want Jenny to be happy more than _anything, ever._ But I’m going to miss her so _much_ when it happens, and it just—it hit me really _hard._ Now that it’s happening.”

That makes Tara frown. “What makes you think that it’s happening?” she says slowly. “Last I checked, Jenny and Giles were friends. Sometimes friends meet for coffee, right?”

“Jenny and Giles are _soulmates,”_ says Anya with conviction.

Wow. Okay. “Really?” says Tara, and she can’t keep the gentle laugh out of her voice. “I’m pretty sure soulmates are in each other’s lives for longer than a café date.”

“So you admit it _was_ a date!”

“Anya—”

“I just—I _miss_ her!” Anya sobs out. “I know I’m gonna lose her and I don’t _want_ to lose her, I want to be with her _forever,_ but that’s—I know she’d never—” And then she bursts into tears all over again, curling inwards and away from Tara’s touch. “Please,” she wails. “Just leave me alone.”

A lump in her throat, Tara removes a jar of pickled salamander tails from one of the shelves. She steps back, shutting the door all the way behind her, and heads upstairs, the sound of Anya’s sobbing echoing in her ears long after it’s died away. She re-enters the store, places the jar down on the counter, sees that Faith has _waited_ for her—all this _time—_ and she can’t help it. She bursts into tears herself.

“Hey— _hey,_ ” says Faith, a surprising tenderness to her voice, and Tara feels herself enfolded in warm, strong arms. “What’s goin’ on? One of the pickled salamanders attack you?”

Tara laughs wetly, raising her head to look up at Faith. “Y-you’re nicer than I remember,” she says, and she _does_ mean it as a compliment. She’s gratified to see that Faith grins a little, recognizing it as such. “Thank you. It’s just—been kind of a hard day, in places.”

Faith considers. Then she says, “Listen, I know I’m a shitty influence. Kinda my thing. But do you wanna go out, grab a cup of coffee? Seems to me like you could really use a break from the hard stuff, and it’s not like your shop is super busy right now. You can close it for a little bit.”

Tara wavers. Leaving Anya to cry alone in their storeroom doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. “I—”

“Hey,” says Faith, “it’s cool. I getcha. But how ‘bout I leave my number, just in case you change your mind?”

 _Smooth,_ Tara thinks, biting back an amused grin. If she had any doubts before about the proto-flirting, she definitely doesn’t now. “I’d like that,” she says, and hopes that even with her messy, tear-stained face, she’s managing to pull off a shyly coquettish smile.

It seems to work. Faith blushes. “Cool, let me just,” she mumbles, and lets go of Tara to grab a pad and pen from the counter. She scribbles down her number, handing it to Tara along with a few crumpled twenties. “That enough for the salamander tails?”

“More than,” says Tara. “Let me get you some change—”

“No need,” says Faith, grinning shyly. “Gotta support local businesses, right?”

Tara _does_ laugh at that, a wet giggle that makes Faith’s grin blossom in return. “Thank you,” she says, and means it. Something about Faith makes her feel…warm. Safe. It’s strange, considering that the first time they met, Faith threw her so off guard—but Faith is different now. So is Tara.

* * *

“Jenny?”

Jenny looks up from the dishes. “Hmm?”

Tara doesn’t think her question is something that should be asked apropos of nothing, so she decides to go with the statement. “Anya saw you and Giles at a café a few days ago,” she says.

“O-kay,” says Jenny, going back to the dishes. “I did say I was tracking down a rare book, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” says Tara, “but with _Giles?”_

Jenny sets down one of the dishes, looking somewhat nettled. “Tara, I don’t know why you’re treating me like I’ve committed a felony,” she says indignantly. “Rupert’s one of our contacts for the shop, he had the book I needed, and he’s an old friend. We went out for lunch and he drove me home. And frankly, I’m getting a little tired of the both of you acting like I’m about to jump ship on this business and run off into the sunset with a guy I barely know!” She’s shouting by the end of it, cheeks blotchy; she takes the dish towel from its holder and starts to violently dry one of the dishes.

“That’s not—” Tara feels tears sting her own eyes, and has to work to keep them down. “Anya was crying,” she says. “That’s why I asked. I don’t think so little of you, Jenny, I _never_ would, and if you think—” Her voice breaks.

“Tara, I’m _sorry,_ ” says Jenny, setting down dish and dish towel. Now she just looks miserable too. “I didn’t mean to—I just—Anya’s been _really_ upset every time I so much as _mention_ Rupert, and I feel awful about it, and then to get it from you too—” She exhales. “I shouldn’t have unloaded all that on you. I’m sorry.”

Tara smiles—a wobbly, unsteady grin—and reaches out to take Jenny’s hand in hers. “I do get it,” she says earnestly.

“You’re a good egg.” Jenny gathers Tara into her arms for a gentle hug. _This_ feels better, Tara thinks, tucking her face into the crook of Jenny’s neck. Jenny smells like a mixture of coffee and that homey smell that permeates the Apothecary. It settles Tara—it makes this weird upheaval feel a little more normal—because Jenny’s hugged Tara like this a thousand times.

Tara pulls back a little, then all the way, stepping back to look at Jenny. “Jenny,” she says carefully. This is the question part. “Do you have…feelings…for anyone?”

“If this is about Rupert—”

“It isn’t,” says Tara.

“Then—” Jenny stops. A strange expression crosses her face—a thousand different feelings in one. She grips the kitchen counter, eyes unfocused, and says unsteadily, “Tara, why are you asking me this?”

Tara hesitates. Even if Anya’s feelings towards Jenny _are_ romantic, they’re certainly not Tara’s to disclose. “You and Anya seem really close,” she says. “Like, _really_ close. I thought—”

“Please don’t ask me that again,” says Jenny, still in that same wobbly voice. She goes back to the dishes.

* * *

(Tara leaves, probably. Jenny doesn’t know. For all she knows, Tara could still be there, standing there with those gentle, knowing eyes, peering into Jenny’s fucking soul, unearthing things that Jenny didn’t even know were _there._ But now they’re there, staring Jenny in the goddamn _face,_ so Jenny stares at the soapsuds and scrubs the plates until her hair is falling out of its updo. And then she just keeps scrubbing, because suddenly she feels weighed down with—with the fucking impossibility of being in love with her best friend, her favorite person, her Anya.)

* * *

Tara calls Faith, and they meet for coffee, and because Tara really doesn’t have anyone to talk to (when your two best friends are very busy making bad life decisions, you can’t exactly talk to either of _them_ ) she explains the whole thing to Faith over pastries. Faith looks a little shell-shocked by the time Tara’s done.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she says.

“Yeah,” says Tara heavily.

“Listen, no offense,” says Faith, “but your friends are total idiots. And this is coming from the girl who once stole her crush’s body and ruined literally _any_ chance of anything there.”

Wait, her— “Buffy?” says Tara, surprised.

Faith ducks her head, smiling almost bitterly. “I was kind of a fuckup,” she says. “Still am, to be honest.”

“I don’t know you that well,” says Tara carefully, “but from what I know of you _now,_ you seem like a pretty nice person to me.”

“Guess you’re gonna have to get to know me better,” Faith quips.

But Tara smiles, reaching across the table to brush her fingers against Faith’s. “I’d like that,” she says. “Really.”

Faith looks up, slowly, almost warily, and slides her hand out of reach. “You’re Red’s girl,” she begins. “I don’t know if—”

“I’m _no one’s_ girl, Faith,” says Tara, keeping her smile gentle, keeping her eyes steely. “Not a single person lays claim to me but me. If Willow _thinks_ I’m her girl, then that’s her problem, not mine.”

“Still,” says Faith quietly. “I—I don’t wanna burn bridges with the Scoobies. I really do want to be your friend, Tara, it’s why I’ve been hangin’ around like I do, but I don’t think—”

Tara feels, suddenly, very tired. “Sure,” she says.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t still—”

“I know,” says Tara slowly. “It’s—I’m just a little tired of being _Willow’s girl,_ Faith. I don’t like that you think of me that way. I’m not—I’m _Tara._ All right? I’m not just _Willow’s girl._ ”

Faith swallows, hard. Then she says, “You know I don’t think of you like that. You know that.”

Tara does.

“I just…” Faith trails off, and sighs. She reaches back across the table, lacing her fingers with Tara’s. “I worked so hard to get them to like me,” she says. “If I throw that all away now—”

“You shouldn’t have to _work_ for that,” says Tara indignantly.

“When you’re me, you do,” says Faith, unsmiling. “I fucked them all over, big-time, and they know it—”

“You shouldn’t have to spend the _rest of your life_ walking on eggshells,” Tara persists, squeezing Faith’s hand. “Listen, I don’t _mind_ if you aren’t interested in me romantically, but I _do_ mind if you _are_ and you’re holding back for _Willow’s_ sake. That’s not fair to me _or_ to her, Faith. She needs to move on.”

Faith squeezes Tara’s hand back. Tentatively, she says, “I hear ya, daisy. But here’s the thing: this is all new for me. Even if I wasn’t dealin’ with Willow, I’d still wanna take things _really_ slow. Are you okay with that?”

Something about that makes Tara feel all kinds of warm and soft. “I’m still getting over Willow, to be honest,” she says. A part of her heart is always going to belong to Willow; that’s just the way it works. But the rest of her heart is still hers to give as she pleases, and she thinks she likes the idea of Faith having it. Whatever Faith was in the past, the girl holding her hand in this cozy little café is careful. Gentle. “So I might need to take things slow too.”

“Okay,” says Faith.

“Okay,” says Tara.

They smile at each other, and Tara feels like something really _might_ be starting to blossom.

* * *

One day, when Tara gets back from a grocery store run, the store is closed—a fact that takes her aback, because the store is _never_ closed. She goes upstairs, and feels both more and less worried to see that Jenny and Anya are sitting on the couch, cuddled up and watching an episode of _Gilmore Girls._ Neither of them look very happy. After a moment of consideration, Tara squeezes herself in between them, breaking Anya’s death grip on Jenny. Both Anya and Jenny _glare_ at Tara, but this also means that they have to make eye contact with each other, which inspires Anya to hide her face in Tara’s shoulder and Jenny to _immediately_ focus her attention on Lorelai and Rory.

“ _Oh my god,”_ says Tara. She’s not sure whether this moment counts as her finding courage or losing her patience. Maybe both. “You two _need_ to talk.”

Anya looks up, abashed. Jenny doesn’t look away from the TV. “I don’t know what you’re—” she begins.

 _“Clearly_ you guys have some unresolved issues,” says Tara, “because I have _never_ seen the both of you _take the day off_ on a _Wednesday._ ”

“Maybe I really, really like Gilmore Girls,” says Jenny stubbornly.

“ _Anya_ doesn’t,” says Tara. “Anya doesn’t like anything but infomercials and those bargain-hunting shows.”

“Maybe I’m making compromises,” says Anya in a wobbly voice.

“Okay,” says Tara. “It is definitely not my place to mediate, because this is something that you two need to work out on your own, but it’s _really difficult_ to live here when both of you are pretending that everything is completely normal. Because it so clearly _is not._ And if you guys want to live like this for the rest of your lives, that’s _fine,_ but I just want the both of you to know that I _hate—”_ She sniffles. “I _hate_ seeing my best friends so unhappy every day. _Please_ keep that in mind before you—”

Jenny bursts into tears.

“Oh no, oh no, oh _Jenny,”_ gasps Anya, very nearly knocking Tara off the couch in her bid to reach Jenny. Jenny sobs, trying to extricate herself from Anya’s embrace, but Anya holds on tight. “Jenny, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I did but I’ll never do it again I promise—”

Jenny just keeps crying. Slowly, she starts to relax into Anya’s arms. Tara decides that this is probably (definitely) a good time to head downstairs.

She can’t make it out from across the shop, but she can see someone waiting outside the closed glass door. _Faith,_ Tara thinks, and she’s already starting to smile as she heads across the shop—but then the figure moves, and Tara sees.

Willow is standing there. She looks strangely apologetic. “Hey, Tara,” she says through the glass. “Can we talk?”

Tara points to the CLOSED sign.

“That’s okay,” says Willow. “But—if you could come outside? I think Faith’s operating under a pretty big misunderstanding, and I straightened it out on her end, but I wanted to make sure you heard some of it too.”

Tara hesitates. The part of her that remembers Willow’s black, angry eyes is reticent to trust this girl again. But the part of her that remembers Willow’s soft smile, Willow’s gentle hands—that part _so_ badly wants to hope. She opens the door and steps outside, waiting.

“So Faith called me from—well, San Francisco—and she said that she’d been out with you, and she wanted me to know,” says Willow. “And then she said that she was worried I’d see it as just another move on her part to try and screw me over, and she really didn’t want to make me feel terrible, but you’d pointed out that a relationship between her and you wasn’t any of my business. And…” Willow trails off, and for a terrifying moment, Tara’s expecting some kind of anti-Faith tirade. But then Willow says, “I think I kind of agree, you know? We haven’t seen each other in almost two years. And I _miss_ you, and I think I’ll always love you, but the stuff I did to you was so profoundly not okay.”

Tara stares at Willow, waiting for Willow to say something else—something that will reveal her growth to be performative, or her motives to be warped. But Willow meets Tara’s eyes with sincerity and guilt. The guilt is what makes Tara believe her. “And your point is?” she says, not unkindly.

“My point is that you’re right, and I told Faith as much,” says Willow, smiling wryly. “I told her that I was really terrible to you, and that you decided to leave, and even though I didn’t at the _time,_ I learned to respect that decision. If you ever decide you want to try again…” She shrugs, her smile now tilted in a sad, self-deprecating way. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought that far ahead. But right now I’m still working on getting better, and if you’re at a place where you can see other people, I don’t want that jeopardized by Faith’s sense of honor.” She swallows, hard. “I really just want you to be happy, Tara. Whether or not that’s with me.”

Tears sting Tara’s eyes. She moves forward and hugs Willow, hard.

And—god, there’s still that part of Tara’s heart that never wants to let go of this girl, not _ever._ Willow’s come so far, tried so hard—it would be so beautiful, so _wonderful,_ for Tara to fall into her arms again. She could leave Jenny and Anya to run their shop together, rejoin the Scoobies, it would be like she’d never left—

Willow pulls back. She’s looking a little teary-eyed too. “Take care of yourself, okay?” she says. “I love you.” And she steps back, and turns around, and leaves.

Tara watches her go. That small, desperate part of her wants to run after Willow, because being with Willow always made all the bad things seem okay. But the thing is: she’s not the girl she was when she was with Willow. Chasing that down would only lead to heartbreak all over again.

 _Maybe someday,_ she thinks. _Maybe not._ Either way, what Tara’s been learning in San Francisco is that sometimes, people’s lives collide at _just_ the right moment for things to work out. You have to hold onto that moment when you find it.

* * *

Tara goes back upstairs, and pauses by the half-open door to their apartment, trying to figure out how the situation between Jenny and Anya has developed.

There are still voices in the living room.

“—don’t know why you’re still so upset,” Anya’s saying. “You have everything going for you, Jenny, if you’d just _tell_ me what it is so I can _fix_ it—”

“Anya, what do _you_ think I have going for me?” says Jenny derisively. “I’m in love with someone who is never going to love me back.”

“Jesus, you’re dramatic.” There’s a gentle laugh in Anya’s voice. “Whoever he is—”

“She.”

“Oooh, is it me?”

A pause. Awkwardly, Jenny says, “Why—I mean, what would you think—”

A longer pause. “I was making a facetious guess.” Anya sounds a little shaky, now. “ _Are_ you in love with me, Jenny?”

“Who—the—I mean, are _you_ in love with _me?”_ deflects Jenny.

Tara resists the urge to facepalm. This, she decides, is a conversation that might end up taking all night, and she _does_ want to get back into the apartment. She opens the door very loudly, pretending not to notice the way Anya and Jenny jump back from each other like they’ve been caught kissing. “Is everything okay?” she asks them, keeping the gently worried look on her face. It’s not that hard.

Jenny and Anya both look a little thunderstruck. “Um, yeah,” says Jenny weakly. “Yes. Everything is totally resolved and we’re all doing great—”

But Anya, whose wide-eyed look has quickly transitioned into the expression of someone doing advanced calculus very fast in their head, grabs Jenny’s elbow.

“Anya?”

“You asked me a question, so I gave it some serious consideration,” says Anya very fast, “and, well, I thought about how I felt every time I thought about you and Giles getting back together, and I thought about how I kept on wanting you in my life for the _rest_ of my life, and I thought about how you’re so gentle and caring and funny and smart and you’ve _never_ left me, not once, you fought _everything_ in the world to stay with me, you came back from the dead to _be_ with me, and Jenny no one’s _ever_ done that for me—”

Jenny turns. She’s breathing raggedly, like she’s just come up from under the water, and there are tears in her eyes.

“I never _wanted_ to fall in love,” says Anya. “Not with you. With Xander, it was—I just _decided_ that I’d love him, because he was a nice young man and that was what humans did, but with you, it’s—I look at you and I feel like I want to be there for you, with you, for _always._ I didn’t have to decide that you were what I _wanted_ , because you’ve just—you’ve just always _been_ what I wanted. Always. Before I even knew I could.”

Tara stares. She feels that same feeling in her chest—like a flower unfurling.

“So yes,” says Anya. “I’m very, very—” She stops, voice catching. “Scared,” she says. “Scared, because the last time I was in love, he left me. And now I’m in love again, and it’s going to hurt a thousand times more if you ever—”

Jenny pulls Anya into a tight hug, burying her face in Anya’s hair. She pulls back after a moment, eyes wet, and says nervously, “Anya, I don’t know how this works, I’ve never—I’ve never been in love with my _best friend—_ ”

Anya lets out a laughing, tearful breath, and kisses her.

“Okay,” says Tara, unable to stop grinning. “I am going to go out for a very long time. Like, seriously, probably all night—”

Jenny and Anya are still kissing. Jenny starts to unbutton Anya’s blouse.

“—and you know what? I’m starting to think I should leave _very_ soon,” Tara continues, whirling around before she can see more of Jenny or Anya than she _ever_ needs to. “So you two just—keep ignoring me. Yep.” Eyes half-covered, she fumbles for the door, then giggles a little as Saint George gently nudges her down the stairs. “Good boy,” she informs him. “Let’s go for a walk. Get some groceries. Give your moms some time to get laid.”

Saint George stands patiently by the door while Tara attaches his leash. She’s just about to grab her purse when she sees someone _else:_ Faith, standing shyly outside the door. “Oh!” she says, and hastens to open the door. “What’s up?”

Faith grins. “Are you going out?”

“With Saint George,” says Tara. She grins back. “Jenny and Anya need some—”

“Alone time?” Faith waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“Actually,” says Tara, “they do.”

Faith blinks, smile widening. _“Shit!_ That’s awesome. Good for them.”

Tara laughs. “Do you want to walk with me?” she says. “Saint George needs some exercise, and I need to pretend I don’t know my best friends are probably having sex upstairs right now.”

Faith laughs too. “This big guy is Saint George, huh?” she says, kneeling down in front of Saint George and scratching his ears. “What a mutt. He looks happy.”

“He’s got like three moms,” says Tara. “He’s totally spoiled.”

Faith stands up, dusting her jeans off, and steps back, leaving room for Tara to step out of the Apothecary. She does, falling into step with Faith, and…it’s been a really long time, Tara thinks, since she’s gotten to have _this._ This warm, sweet, possibility-filled feeling, where her world feels like it’s getting bigger every minute. She and Faith might fall in love; she and Faith might go on a few dates and fizzle out after a little while. There are no monsters, no apocalypses, no _worries—_ just the midday sun, and Saint George barking at everything that moves, and Faith telling Tara stories about her life in Boston.

The best happy endings, Tara thinks, are the ones that feel like beginnings.

* * *

“Welcome to the Apotheca _aaaa_ ry!” Anya gasps as Jenny kisses her neck. “No, Jenny, stop, this is _professional_ —leave a mess-a-age! After the beep!” She hangs up the phone and starts trying to hit Jenny with a rolled-up newspaper; Jenny jumps back, laughing. “Heathen!” says Anya, who’s laughing just as much. “Saboteur!”

“Oh, what _ever,_ ” says Jenny happily, and pulls Anya into another kiss.

Tara, who has gotten extremely used to this level of ridiculousness, moves past the both of them to pick up the phone and record a message. “Welcome to the Apothecary,” she reads off of Anya’s Post-It. “Your call is very important to us, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Please leave a message after the beep.”

“ _Thank_ you, Tara,” says Anya, pulling herself away from Jenny to give Tara a grateful (smudged-lipstick) smile. “You’re a godsend.”

“ _You’re_ a godsend,” says Jenny, tugging Anya back to face her.

“Oh, please,” says Anya. “You were _literally_ sent down by the Powers that Be to be my one true love and live happily ever after with me. Of the two of us, you’re _definitely—_ ”

“Just take the compliment, Anya,” says Jenny, and kisses Anya on the cheek, letting her go. “Tara, there’s some leftover inventory that needs doing—”

“ _You_ need doing,” says Anya.

Jenny throws a crumpled-up piece of paper in her girlfriend’s direction. “Not now, honey, we’re on the clock.”

“So _now_ we’re on the clock,” says Anya indignantly, “but when I want to record an important message for our customers, I am _attacked_ in my own store?”

“You’re so melodramatic,” says Jenny. “I really appreciate it.”

As it turns out, Tara being friends with Jenny-and-Anya is pretty much the same as Tara being friends with Jenny and Anya. Jenny still loves talking nerdy magic talk with Tara over dinner, and Anya still likes to French braid Tara’s hair while they watch long infomercials about vacuum cleaners (or, if Tara has the remote, nature documentaries). Nothing’s changed. Tara feels a little silly for thinking that it might have, but she supposes she’s a little used to the dramatically all-consuming romantic relationships of Sunnydale. Kisses that don’t take up your whole life are a little harder to get used to.

And speaking of kisses—

“I put some of those crates in the storeroom,” Faith announces, striding in from the back alley behind the shop and leaning across the counter to press her lips to Tara’s. “Hi.”

Tara beams. “Hi.”

“Ugh,” says Jenny, grinning. “Get a _room._ ”

“Pot, kettle, Jen,” says Faith. “There is lipstick _all over your face._ ”

As a flustered Jenny tries to address the lipstick situation with an old handkerchief (mostly just making it worse), Faith turns to Tara, who can’t help but laugh. “You look so _proud_ of yourself,” she says. “Poor Jenny!”

“Poor Jenny my ass,” says Faith, swinging herself up and over the counter. “That chick can hold her own like nobody’s business. Yesterday she saw that hickey you left on my neck and she teased me about it for _forty-five minutes._ ”

“Well, she knows an easy mark,” says Tara innocently.

“You take that the _fuck_ back—”

The bell on the door rings. Jenny is still dealing with the lipstick; Anya and Tara are both dealing with lingering giggles. Faith, however, grins at the new customer, stepping up to the register. “Welcome to the Apothecary,” she says. “How can I help you?”


End file.
